LATER, AFTER HER reward was spent completely, they lay curled together, each knowing these were the last moments they would ever share. The light strips on the ceiling were dialed low, shedding just enough light for them to make out the intertwined lines of their bodies.
“You’ve earned your reward,” he whispered. “Have I earned mine? You won’t snitch on me?”
“No, of course not. But you should never say anything like that again. Never. Trickster’s seed has taken root in your heart. So you’d better be careful, Pillow. Even if the Overseers never find out, the Gods will know. And when you die and go before the Gates, They’ll see your heart, and They won’t let you in. Even a pretty boy like you.” She punctuated her warning with a playful bite on his nose.
The boy laughed, and it turned into a yawn. He stretched and repositioned himself closer to her. “And how does a pitter from Warrens Zevna know so much about the Gods?”
“Because Grandfather Spear told me,” she said, fighting the urge to start yawning herself. Her fingertip traced little spirals, gliding across his smooth, tattooed scalp. “And I’m not a pitter anymore. I’m in the Servants now.”
“You’re right, of course. But what does the grandfather of a newly glyphed servant know about the Gods?”
“Everything. He knows Their names. He knows Their Will. He knows Their stories,” she said. “Do you want to hear Their story? It’s our story too.”
“Sure, tell me a story.” He cupped her wounded breast in his hand. She felt her own heartbeat against his palm.
“Grandfather Spear says that many thousands of years ago there were the Nahg, the Old Masters. This is before the Divine Masters, before the infidels shattered the Gates of Heaven. The Nahg were the masters of machines. They thought they were wise and powerful, but they were lazy and weak, and they fought among themselves with their terrible war machines.
“And then the Gods came from the Gates of Heaven to gift the Old Masters with Their Divine Will. But the Nahg rejected Will and went to war with the Gods. Which they lost. Badly. First, the Gods destroyed their war machines. Second, the Gods destroyed their world, the world-above.” She pointed at the ceiling. “And third, the Gods destroyed the Old Masters. Only nine times nine were spared, the wisest and noblest of the Nahg. The Gods had chosen them to spread Their Will throughout the galaxy. They gave them the gift of mastery over life, and that is how the Nahg became the Nahgak-Ri, the Divine Masters.
“The Divine Masters knew that if they were to spread Divine Will throughout the stars and unify the galaxy, they would need soldiers. And even more workers. There were so few of them, and Divine Will forbade using machines to do what the living could do, so they dug deep underground and started the First Labyrinth. There in the tunnels, the Divine Masters created Humans to be the workers and the enforcers of Divine Will. Grandfather says that Humans are uniquely blessed: We know our place in the universe, when so many wander the stars, lost and confused, separated from the Will. Living without meaning.”
“I know what comes next,” the boy said, his words slow and sleepy. “Star Father dropped a giant pile of stinking shit and made the Overseers.”
“Boy, what is wrong with you? Listen, you need to hear this. There was also Trickster among the Gods. And while the Divine Masters were creating Humans in the First Labyrinth, Trickster crept through the tunnels unseen. Ahn found the first men and women and played ahns trick. In each of their hearts, Trickster planted the seeds of defiance and doubt. Grandfather Spear says we must never let Trickster’s seeds take root and bloom in our hearts or else we will be lost to Will. Lost to our place in the universe.”
“Our place in the universe is shit,” he sighed. “We’re khvazol. Nameless . . . Unseen . . . What’s so great about that?”
She felt like she should say something, but wasn’t sure how to respond to questions that shouldn’t be asked. Sabira had never heard anyone speak this way. Any human who dared to say half of his blasphemies soon found themselves in the ribs.
“That’s why you have to devote yourself completely, body and heart, to Divine Will. My grandfather grew up with the Diggers just like me. But now he travels the stars. He has a name. He has honors and privileges that would make even a chosen jealous. Our place in Divine Will is a gift, if you have faith.”
The pillow lay beside her, quiet and unmoving, for a long time before speaking again. “Does this mean that you’re going to report me after all?”
“No.” But godsdammit, you’re not making it easy. “It’s not that. I just don’t like blasphemy. I don’t want to think about what will happen to you if . . . I won’t snitch. Just be careful who you talk to. Probably better if you just don’t talk at all.” She turned over and rested her head on his chest. “You shouldn’t say those things again. I don’t know why you said it to me.”
“I know. I see you. And I’m sorry. You’re a good storyteller. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”
“You think I’m a good storyteller?” she asked. “No one’s ever told me that before.”
“Since you promise not to snitch, I've got a story for you too.” He yawned deeply. “If I don’t fall asleep first. Look at me. Yes, come on, really look at me. Now say ‘zaicha.’”
“Zaicha? Like the old hens’ tales? Little rat-like beast with the long ears and all the hair? Steals the vegetables out of the caverns when the aggies aren’t looking?”
“That’s the one. Look me right in the eye, and say it,” he said, even though he barely had his own eyes open to look at her.
Sabira did as he asked. “Zaicha. Now, why am I doing this? And how is this a story?”
“My hen-mother used to tell me those old hens’ tales.” He caressed the back of her neck as he spoke. “I was a mine rat at the time. She’d tell all her broods those stories. But I was the only one . . . only child she’d call her zaicha. She called all her brood names from the old tales. Our little secret . . . Do you see me? That’s my story. I’ve got one, too. My name”—he yawned again, slowly and quietly—“is Zaicha.”
Sabira felt him soften, his breath becoming slow and deep as he drifted into sleep beside her. She lifted her head and propped up on her elbow. Studied his face in the dim light. No victory glyphs, no name glyphs, no scars. No blood.
How could he say he has a name? Have I made a mistake?
For a long time, she lay on her back looking at the scratched ceiling and the dim light strips, the pillow’s words repeating in her head. Even by the time she finally fell asleep, she wasn’t clear at all how she felt about it.
Sabira dreamt she was with her brood-sister. It was a recurring dream she’d been having recently. They were both round and heavy, their pregnant bellies ready to burst. Her sister delivered first. Two boys and a girl, all beautiful and healthy and strong.
The girl was very proud of her sister. But something went wrong inside her. The girl screamed and screamed in pain. She cried for help from the medics and her brood-sister. But she was all alone. Her stretched, overripe belly ripped open, and thousands of insects swarmed out, crawling and buzzing, antennae flailing. When the baby’s head emerged from her glistening wound, horned and scaled, looking hungrily at her breasts with orange, slitted eyes, she woke up gasping, struggling to breathe.
Just a nightmare, she told herself. Just a dream that will never come true. Go back to sleep.
Servant Discipline began next shift. She would be taken to a whole new Labyrinth and most likely would never see her brood-sister or this pretty pillow again. And in a year, when discipline was completed, it wasn’t underground pits and endless tunnels that awaited her, but the most fantastic things a human could imagine. Things she only knew of from Grandfather’s stories: the world-above, the boundless sky, an infinity of stars.
And war.
It was everything she ever wanted. And there, in her victor’s private cell, curled up beside her sleeping reward, she was afraid. All she knew were mines and Overseers, digging and fighting. Always in the same tunnels, always surrounded by the same faces. Tomorrow it would all be gone.
Savoring the sound of the one thing in the galaxy that was hers, she whispered into the dark.
“My name is Sabira.”